PLEASE could you do a jealous sub clark kent ): he's so whinyyy and u have to keep proving to him that u only want him and he's just huffing and looking away and he doesn't wanna meet ur eyes bc he's a little shy about your affection and ur teasing but he's also just relishing in it 😕 when he's being bratty about it u tease him about the guy he's jealous of bc he's being so whiny about it 💔💔
︵ ♫ ﹗ oh, of course i can, subby clark holds such a special place in my heart. in fact, as soon i saw this ask i got to writing. this is so yummy, anon.
wc: 2k
JEALOUS CLARK KENT◝ zᶻ
(part two right here!)
You and Clark had been dating for about a month now—still deep in that heady honeymoon phase where every glance and touch felt like the most important thing in the world. So when moments like today happened—when Clark got a little insecure and whiny—you couldn’t help but soften toward him. You knew in your heart, beyond any doubt, that Clark was the only one you wanted. But for some reason, he wasn’t so sure about that.
The day at the Daily Planet had been a whirlwind. You’d been assigned a new intern, a nervous but eager guy named Noah. You threw yourself into the role of mentor, patiently showing him the ropes, encouraging him with your usual bright smile. “Good job, Noah! You’re already better than I was when I first began,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair when he caught on to something quickly. You tried to be as supportive as possible, coaxing and praising, but it meant you barely had a moment to breathe—let alone think about Clark.
And Clark noticed. Oh, he noticed.
You hadn’t glanced at him once all day. Not across the cluttered desks, not in passing by the coffee machine. You’d been running around after Noah like he was some lost puppy you had to keep on track, and Clark’s usual quiet confidence was replaced by a growing simmer of jealousy and hurt. He was supposed to be yours. The one you sent secret smiles to when no one else was looking. But today? You were gone—your attention consumed by the eager intern who clung a little too tightly when saying goodbye.
Clark shut down his computer early, practically storming out without saying much more than a stiff, “See you at home, babe.” The smile that followed was forced, tight around the edges.
When you arrived, the house felt quieter than usual. Clark was in the kitchen, stirring something slowly, brows drawn together in a way that made your heart squeeze. His icy blue eyes were fixed on the pot, but they looked dimmer, sadder, watery—like the light had gone out a little. He barely glanced your way.
You stepped closer, sensing how tense he was, the slight trembling in his hands. “Clark,” you said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm, “what’s wrong? You can tell me.”
He swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but your face. His fingers nervously pushed up his glasses, then fiddled with the edge of his shirt. His voice came out small and hesitant, almost stumbling over the words. “I… I don’t really know how to say it right, I feel so stupid and needy… But I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. That, um— Nico, Noah, whatever...”
You nodded encouragingly, heart tightening. “Mmhmm.”
Clark blinked rapidly, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing faintly. “And, well, you didn’t even… look at me today. Not even once. It… it felt like I wasn’t there. And well, I like looking at you, y'know that...”
You gently reached out and turned him toward you, making sure he met your eyes. His gaze flickered between yours. “Hey, maybe take a break from the stove? You’re staring so hard you’ll burn a hole in the pot.”
He managed a small, shy smile but still avoided your eyes. You guided him to the couch and helped him sit down, then settled on his lap, careful to keep your voice soft and soothing.
He fidgeted with his glasses again, hands twitching like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. “It’s just… every time he hugged you… I wanted to get up and, I don't know, pull him away. I didn’t like it. And, god— the way he kept staring at you?”
You smiled gently, brushing your fingers through his hair. "You're so silly. You know he's just a kid, he was assigned to me, honey."
His cheeks darkened even more, and he looked anywhere but your face. “I… I just don’t like it. I don’t like thinking… maybe he thinks he has a chance with you. And the worst part is, he's not doing anything wrong— I... I don't even blame him, you're the prettiest girl there. But— but, you're mine...”
You cupped his cheek gently, your thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over his skin as you held his gaze. His eyes were wide and uncertain, flickering nervously away every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if he deserved your full attention. The tremble in his hands grew more noticeable as he fidgeted with the edge of his glasses, pushing them up again and again, clearly struggling to keep himself together. “Clark,” you whispered softly, “you don’t have to worry about any of that—not even for a second. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I’m with. No one else even comes close, okay?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the words you spoke were almost too much to take in. His voice came out small and shaky, barely above a whisper. “I… I’m probably being a baby about this, but… I get jealous sometimes, and I may sound silly... No, I-I do, sound silly, jus' forget it...” he cut through, palming his face, looking to avoid your gaze further. There was a soft, whiny edge to his words, as if he was scared you’d think he was dumbfor feeling this way.
You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering as you smiled warmly. “Hey, hey! You’re not stupid at all, Clark. It’s okay to feel jealous. It means you care—deeply—and that’s not something to be ashamed of.”
His hands trembled more now, and he nervously adjusted his shirt, biting his lower lip in a bashful attempt to hide his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry I’m being such a baby about this,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to seem needy or weak.”
You shook your head gently as you let out a soft chuckle, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his temple. “There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You don’t have to hide your feelings from me.”
He looked up then, finally meeting your eyes for a brief moment, but the shyness still shone brightly in his gaze. “Please don’t laugh at me, baby,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “I just… care a lot, and sometimes it’s hard not to feel... overwhelmed? I dunno...”
You smiled tenderly, fingers threading through his hair as you held him close. “I would never laugh at you, Clark. Your feelings are important to me—all of them, even the messy, scared parts. You’re safe here, always.”
His shoulders finally relaxed a little, and he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again to look at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw and honest. “For loving me even when I’m… like this, i mean”
“For exactly who you are,” you promised, pressing a slow kiss to his temple.
Then, just as you were about to pull away, he hesitated, eyes flickering with a shy intensity. His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but there was something possessive beneath the timidity. “You’re… mine, you know that?” he said, blinking rapidly, fingers nervously twisting together. “I don’t really like sharing.”
You chuckled softly, heart melting at the earnestness in his voice.
He looked at you again, cheeks burning hotter now, but he kept going, a shy whine threading through his words. “I didn’t like how you were telling him how good of a job he was doing either… that’s supposed to be just for me.”
You could feel the corners of his mouth tug upward, the tiniest smile hidden against your chest, but he didn’t lift his head. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, almost like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d drift off to reassure someone else. You combed your fingers gently through his hair, letting the silence stretch—warm and safe—until you felt the softest sigh leave his lips.
“You know,” you said after a moment, your voice teasing but tender, “you’re being awfully possessive for someone who wouldn’t even look at me five minutes ago.”
He let out a muffled groan and turned his face away further, burying it into your shoulder like a sulking cat. “Stopppp…” he muttered, voice embarrassingly high and soft. “Don’t make fun of me…”
“I’m not making fun,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I’m just saying… all this whining and sulking, all these jealous little sighs… it’s kinda cute.”
He groaned again, only this time it had a whiny little kick to it, like he was too proud to admit he liked the attention but too soft to push it away. “I’m not whining,” he said into your neck, voice muffled but petulant. “You were just—he was so close to you. And you were laughing at his jokes. You never laugh at mine like that.”
“Oh, please,” you said with a laugh, pulling back slightly just to look at him. “Clark, you’re literally the funniest person I know. You're the only one who’s ever made me laugh-snort in a meeting.”
He refused to meet your gaze, now fidgeting with the hem of your shirt like it might save him from combusting on the spot. His ears were glowing red. “Yeah, well… I didn’t like it. He was all over you. And you were all smiley and… nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“Not that nice,” he huffed, pouting like it physically hurt to admit it. “You touched his arm and everything.”
You smirked, unable to resist the temptation. “Ohhh, this is about the arm touch?”
“Shut up…” he whispered, more embarrassed now than annoyed, curling in closer like he could disappear inside your chest. “You said he was doing a good job. Twice.”
Your fingers danced over his jaw, tilting his face up just a little. “Do you want me to take it back? Call him and say, ‘Hey Noah, I was lying. You actually suck. Clark’s the only one who gets compliments from now on.’”
Clark gave a tiny snort despite himself and shook his head, clearly caught between sulking and basking. His lashes fluttered as he stared down at your collar instead of your eyes. “No,” he mumbled. “That’s mean. He’s… fine. I guess.”
You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to something just a bit more playful. “Mmm. So you don’t want me to tell him he should stop looking at me like I’m a walking fairy tale?”
Clark stiffened, cheeks going crimson as he peeked at you, finally daring to meet your gaze. “He was looking at you like that…”
“And you didn’t like it?”
He let out a soft, broken sound that was part pout and part whimper. “No.”
Your smile turned mischievous. “Well, you’re gonna have to try harder to stake your claim, baby. You can’t just sulk and grumble about it.”
“I don’t sulk,” he shot back, clearly sulking.
You giggled, poking his side gently. “You do. Like a jealous little puppy. All pouty and sad-eyed and desperate for head pats.”
He huffed again, hiding his face in your shoulder, but you could feel the way his arms clung tighter to you. “I hate when you say stuff like that.”
“No, you don’t,” you murmured, stroking his back. “You love it. You’re literally purring.”
“I’m not—!” he started to protest, but the breathy laugh in his voice gave him away.
You pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, smiling against his skin. “It’s okay to like being babied a little. Especially when you get all cute and bratty.”
He stayed quiet after that, just curling closer, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Finally, in the softest voice imaginable, he whispered:
“I just want you to tell me I’m doing a good job. I like it when it’s jus' for me.”
You froze for a second, the honesty of it hitting somewhere deep. “You are doing a good job, Clark,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair again. “With everything. You’re the one I come home to, the one I trust with all of this,” you gestured around the space between you, “you’re not just that—you’re my favorite part of the whole damn day.”
[AN] Requests are always open. I selfishly wrote this to inspire ideas for oneshots, so lmk if any of these make you want a slightly longer fic 💙
Superman Masterlist
SFW
💙 Physical touch. Like LOTS of it. Since he has to be careful around you in public, seeing as he is a superhero and what not, he soaks up as much of you as he can when you are alone. He will pull you on his lap when watching movies together, wrapping his arms around you and occasionally kissing your neck or jaw. When he walks past you, he will always brush a hand across your waist or pick you up, making you squeal, until he quiets you with a kiss.
💙 But when you are in public and he's incognito, he will hold your hand. He wants to make sure you he can feel you at all times.
💙 Very grand dates. Flying you both to the top of the Empire State Building at night to watch the city lights below or whisking you north to have a picnic beneath the northern lights. Using his laser vision to write messages in mountains or recruiting a grumpy (but secretly very excited) Guy Gardner to build you castles or forests to explore. He uses his powers to spoil you, and he loves how cute you look when you are in awe.
💙 Loves debate and playful banter. If you can dish it out, he can take it, but he'll send it right back. It's never malicious, but it's always clever. He values your intellect, so he enjoys long conversations with you about any topic you find interesting, but particularly music, current events, books, or, if you're into it, sports.
💙 Clark is trying to explore what it means to be human. He was able to experience parental love to its fullest, but now he wants to know what it means to experience romantic love. What does it mean to laugh, fight, cry, learn, and grow with the person he has chosen to love?
💙 So he asks you lots of questions. He is curious about all your nuances, constantly trying to understand how you feel and why. You inspire him, and he learns so much about himself just by being with you.
NSFW
💙 A giver through and through. He wants to hear you moan his name while his mouth is between your legs, absolutely devouring you. He loves to let you be a pillow princess, using his incredible strength and stamina to send you over the edge again and again and again and again.
💙That being said, he's got a bit of an overstimulation kink. He loves to make you come and he could quite literally go all day long. Even when you are practically begging for a break, he knows you well enough to read between the lines. I think you can handle one more for me.
💙He will encourage you with praise, going far beyond the simple 'good girl.' Try only you can take me so well. You look so beautiful when I'm buried inside you. You make the prettiest sounds when you come, it's like music to my ears baby.
💙 And once you are utterly demolished, he lavishes you with aftercare. He'll massage your legs and help you get dressed in something comfy, snuggling you afterward. If you decide to take a shower, he will help wash you, taking his time to let you linger in the hot water. And of course, he loves to feed you, cooking you something delicious and filling to replenish your energy.
💙Remember those extravagant dates? Well, they always end with lovemaking. He can't help it, and neither can you. Not when you're flooded with adrenaline at being jetted to the other side of the world or whisked to the top of a skyscraper. You get so excited that it gets him excited. Next thing you know, you are staring at the full vibrancy of the milky way above you while Clark is railing you somewhere in the middle of African sand dunes.
divider from @cafekitsune; reblog/comment banner from @saradika-graphics
I can’t stop thinking about slightly not-human Clark. Like slightly pointed ears, sharper fangs, unnaturally blue eyes, really long almost snake-like tongue.
Idk I just love this and wish more people wrote about it because it’s so cool and it really shows how he’s so similar to humanity while also being a literally alien from another planet.
I’m imagining Bruce noticing these smaller details and becoming infatuated with them and wanting to know all about them. Always telling Clark that he loves these little features bc Clark’s insecure about them and Bruce making him feel better.
i just KNOWWWW bro was so embarrassed when his mom put this up. obviously his ma thinks he looks very distinguished and handsome (which he is, duh doy) but he just thinks he looks like a colossal dork.
“aw, ma… ya had to hang that one? i look like i’m runnin’ for class president in ‘85 .”
clark is the type of guy who, anytime someone invites him anywhere, just laughs and goes, “eh, gotta check with the missus first,” obvi meaning you. he’s not stepping foot anywhere unless you’re cool with it. he kind of likes making it clear you’re the boss.
he’s texting you right after saying “hi baby, how was your day? jimmy’s inviting me for drinks later after work. is that cool, hun?”
just boyfriend clark and his antics ◟✿
warnings: not really, pretty fluffy.
જ⁀➴ Clark’s music taste isn’t exactly broad. He mostly listens to what he grew up with—songs that remind him of home, of mornings in the Kent farmhouse with his mom humming along as she cooked. Don McLean is sacred. American Pie, Vincent—classics. He puts them on while making breakfast, like clockwork. And without fail, they wreck him. You’ll glance over and find him tearing up at the stove, blinking fast like that’ll help. You ask him once, “Why do these songs get you so emotional? You’re not even into Van Gogh.” (The song "Vincent" is basically an ode to Van Gogh, and "American Pie" is one to Buddy Holly)
He sniffles, flips a pancake, and says, “You’re heartless. Have you heard the lyrics? That’s poetry, thank you.”
“You cried during a commercial for arthritis cat food last week.”
“Because I have empathy,” he shoots back, mock-offended.
જ⁀➴ You hadn’t quite gotten used to it, being with Clark, knowing he truly, unshakably loved everything about you. Not just your laugh or your thoughts or the way you held his hand when you were nervous. But you, completely. You used to think Clark’s love for humanity ended with the soul, compassion, hope, bravery. But it’s more than that. He sees the human body as something sacred, something resilient. Even if his is nearly identical, he knows he’s not really one of you. Maybe that’s why he’s so in awe.
Your past—boys who picked apart what you wore, what you looked like, how you looked when you didn’t smile—left marks. And so did your own words, the ones you whispered to the mirror in quiet moments.
But Clark? He traces those same parts like they’re written in gold.
“You know,” he says one night, running a hand gently along your arm, “I don’t think people realize how incredible they are. Everything your body’s been through, and it’s still yours. Still strong. Still beautiful.”
You try to brush it off with a laugh, but he stops you, eyes soft.
“No, I mean it. You’re a miracle. Every inch.”
જ⁀➴ Clark may not get sick like humans do, but he knows how fragile the human body can be, and he reveres it. He reads medical journals like most people would scroll social media. Every new study, every breakthrough—he’s on it. If researchers say something might cause long-term damage? It vanishes from your home without a word. One day it’s in the pantry, the next it’s gone. You’ve learned not to ask what happened to the non-stick pans.
He’s quick to scold too, in that Clark Kent way.
“You drank that energy drink again, didn’t you?” he says, arms crossed, pouting at you.
You wince. “It was one time. I was exhausted.”
“Caffeine, synthetic taurine, seventeen grams of sugar, and no actual nutrition,” he lists off instantly. “You may as well drink battery acid.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Oh, but I will call your mom if you keep this up.”
But underneath the scolding is love, a deep, anxious love. Because he’s seen how delicate humans are. How easily hurt. And the idea of losing you to something preventable makes his heart ache in ways even he can’t even begin to explain.
“You only get one body,” he murmurs once, wrapping his arms around you. “I don’t get to fix that if anything were to happen to you."
If anything ever happened to you, if you ever got sick and couldn’t be treated here, he’d tear through the galaxy without hesitation. He’d fly straight through the heart of Andromeda if it meant finding a planet, a cure, a fragment of something that could save you. Nothing on Earth or beyond would keep him from trying.
જ⁀➴ Clark was never exactly tech-savvy. He still types with one finger and once called the Wi-Fi “the internet signal.” But he does have an Instagram account, with exactly 15 followers (two of which are your parents) and follows mostly rescue shelters, NASA, and you.
And he goes crazy over Reels.
You can hear them echoing through the apartment when you’re in the shower—dog videos, inspirational quotes in cursive fonts, and Flowers by Miley Cyrus for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, all blasting at full volume like your boyfriend’s a suburban mom on her iPad.
He sends you a steady stream of dog memes, tiny cat posts with a follow-up message saying “you,” and medical infographics with captions like “new study suggests drinking cold water too fast is bad for your esophagus,” followed by no context. Just the link and sometimes “pls read.”
But the best part? When you post a selfie.
He replies three, four, sometimes five times to the same Story. Once with “Sweet Jesus,” then again with “That's my girl!!” and “Good grief.” And maybe five minutes later: “Lord have mercy I need to sit down.”
જ⁀➴ Clark has terrible dad jokes. Like, the kind that make you roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they’ll get stuck. But he tells them anyway, with that earnest smile that makes you laugh even when you’re trying not to.
He loves puns, the cheesier, the better. One minute you’re having a serious conversation, and the next he drops something like,
“Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything.”
You groan.
“Clark, please.”
But then he just grins wider, proud as can be. “I’m here all week.”
જ⁀➴ Clark tries so hard to keep up with your slang, but it doesn’t always land. One afternoon, you’re scrolling through your phone, laughing at a TikTok, and he peers over your shoulder.
“That’s so… cunty?” he repeats carefully, raising an eyebrow like he’s testing the word for balance.
You blink, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Like, unapologetic, powerful, feminine. Kind of fierce energy.”
Clark nods slowly, considering. “So if someone does something bold and… that way, you’d say, ‘That’s so cunty’?”
You grin, amused. “Exactly.”
The next day, you catch him using it in the newsroom, totally deadpan:
“Lois was being so cunty about the lead on that story.”
Lois gives him a look that could freeze a volcano. Clark just shrugs, smiling like he nailed it.
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re never getting rid of that one now.”
જ⁀➴ Clark doesn’t curse. Ever. You’ve known him through world-ending crises, explosive arguments at Daily Planet, and even a dropped pie on Thanksgiving but not once have you heard anything harsher than a “heck” leave his mouth. So naturally, when you stub your toe on the coffee table and let out a very colorful string of expletives, he gasps like you’ve just kicked a nun.
“Language,” he says, pausing mid-fold with a pair of your socks in hand, brows raised in gentle disapproval.
You shoot him a look through the pain. “Clark. I’m in agony. You want me to say ‘gosh darn’ and call it a day?”
“I’m just saying there are... alternatives,” he says, calmly, like this is a productive conversation and not a moral intervention. “You could say, like, ‘shoot’ or ‘fudge.’ Or ‘crumbs.’ People say ‘crumbs,’ right?”
You stare at him. “Clark, no one under the age of 97 says ‘crumbs.’”
He crosses the room and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to cleanse your aura. “You kiss me with that mouth?”
You grin. “You love this mouth.”
He stammers, caught. “W-Well. That’s not the point.”
જ⁀➴In your household, killing bugs is absolutely forbidden, not by you, or the law by any means, but by Clark.
You learned this the hard way the first time you spotted a spider on the wall and casually asked, “Can you kill that?” He turned to you like you’d just asked him to burn down an orphanage. “Kill it?” he repeated, hand to his chest in genuine sympathy for the spider.
“It’s more scared of you than you are of it.” You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t done. “What if it has a little spider family to go back to?” he added softly, already retrieving a cup and a piece of paper to gently relocate the poor thing.
Since then, it's become routine: you scream, he walks in calmly, says something like “Let’s not be dramatic,” and gently escorts the bug outside. You’ve caught him more than once murmuring “Sorry, little guy” while setting them free. You gave up arguing about it, Clark Kent doesn’t kill anything that isn’t absolutely world-ending. Not even spiders.
